


Crux

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Crucifixion, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Legion never respected her, so she does something they can't ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crux

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask a poet to write surreal spirit quests on top of crucifixion kink.

She carries the crossbar- heavy, she struggles under the weight. When she reaches the point of the hill, she collapses with a yelp for her splintered shoulder, and watches the legionaries nail it to the stipe. She strips her clothes, down to the sports brassiere and men’s underwear (how like her, to wear the undergarments of a man), and her pale flesh, accustomed to hiding from moonlight like this, is marred beyond any semblance of beauty its shade may suggest. This is the first the Legion sees her without her defenses, sees the left boot slip off to nothing underneath. The girl only has one leg.

She outstretches her own arms and the men tie them to the patibulum at the wrist, crisscrossing up the forearm to the elbow- unusual, her own design. The configuration prevents the wrists from dislocating, at the cost of more stress on the elbows and shoulders. Her shoulders look more meaty than her woman’s wrists, at least. This cross has a small rest for the feet- or, in her case, foot- as the leverage she can get from one ankle lashed to the simplex is minimal. She winces as they hoist her up, and secure the cross, but she does not cry out. Then, the men leave her to look out over the Fort.

“Why?” he asks from behind her, but she knows his voice. It’s unmistakable.

She breathes shallowly: purposefully, the crucifixion pose makes exhaling difficult, so she limits the need. “Caesar won’t let me train as a legionary.”

“You wouldn’t survive it.”

She inhales, very slowly, weight on her foot. “Most legionaries wouldn’t survive this.”

“Mercy to do it at night, you won’t suffer exposure.” Not to that precious pallor of yours.

“Twenty-four hours.”

Vulpes is impressed at her ambition, but it matters not. “You won’t survive.”

She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t need to.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 _Foot. Inhale, exhale. Arms. Hold. Foot. Inhale, exhale. Arms. Hold. Foot._ she repeats in her head, mapping the distribution of her weight, when she can breathe, when the pull on her joints keeps her ribcage from expanding. The sky is beautiful out here, in the west. She loves the sky- the stars, the moon. She could never see them through the radiation back home.

 _Foot. Inhale, exhale. Arms. Hold. Foot. Inhale, exhale. Arms. Hold._ She remembers the names of constellations. Canis Major. Canis Minor. Ursa Major, Minor. Capricorn. Aires. Orion. Cancer.

Cancer used to be such a fear, people lost lives, families, children to cancer. Now, it’s just “radiation poisoning”. It’s all radiation. She looks back at the stars, God, does she love the stars.

Aquila, Taurus, Pisces, Lyra, Gemini. She does not know the constellations, just names she remembers from books- so many books in the Arlington Library, and all of them live on her wrist.

Cassiopeia, Libra, Scorpius, Signus, Virgo, Sagittarius, Leo. Lea. Lion, lioness. Lea. Her name- the name given to her by Lanius at the Dam. Lea. Leo, oh, he could have named her lion and no one would have thought, but he watched her fight, and rip NCR arteries free with her teeth because she couldn’t reload as fast as her blood was pumping- but Lanius named her Lea. Lion _ess_. Woman.

And better than any other legionary there.

 _Foot. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, inhale, inhale, exhale. Arms. Hold_. How long has it been? Oh, why did she have to wonder that? She couldn’t start thinking that, not yet. _Foot. Inhale, exhale._ She’ll live.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun’s coming up- a good sign, a passage of time. A precursor to sun exposure, dehydration, dizziness, nausea, hallucinations... Damn her medical training. She wishes she didn’t know.

The Legion wakes, and moves- like ants, up and down the hill, carrying, fighting, soldiers and workers, aphid slaves and... well, a Queen. Just like ants, worthless alone, their power comes from their armies. Remove the pheromones- the veterans, the vexillarii, the army frenzies. She’s seen it in fire ants. Kill the Queen, the colony dies out. Caesar will die.

“Ave.”

She swallows, and mumbles, “Ave.”

“How goes it?” Lucius asks as he rounds to the front of the cross.

“Lovely shade a’ green.”

“Then it’s going well. I have faith.”

 _At least one of us does._ “You should.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She pushes her weight up on her foot, gasps, falls to her arms, the joints ache. Oxygen deprivation kills brain cells, fatigue is setting in, but she has to breathe. _Foot. Inhale, exhale. In-in-inhale, exhale. Breathe. Arms- damn! Hold. You can hold._ She blinks against the sun, her skin burns. She’s starting to feel light-headed, needs to lie down, like that’s going to happen. The sun beats on her, but it feels like her skin’s radiating more back. Radiation, ha! It’s all radiation.

D.C. was a hell she called home. The sky- by God, she still can’t get over the sky here. Blue, white clouds, orange sands. D.C. was grey, and a thick radiation-haze of green. It’s all radiation. Hell, she survived lethal radiation for that damn purifier, trekked all the way to the radioactive glow of the Pacific, lost her reproductive capabilities to- she thought heavy Buffout she quit for the Legion- a few too many RADs, Vault 87- radiation, radiation, radiation.

Arms, straining. Foot, fucking breathe! Bullet to the brain couldn’t kill her, radiation didn’t stand a chance. Maybe she was immortal. _Think of goddesses, which are you?_ Hera? No, the Roman was Juno, and she never played second-fiddle to a Zeus, anyway. Venus? Like beauty was her best quality. Silus would say Minerva, but that just made her hate the idea. Artemis? Or, oh, what was she in Roman? Diane? Diana! What a chump name. Fuck it; not even Caesar knew Roman myth that well. Artemis, she was a deity of night, archery (translated to sniper), animals- that she could see. But childbirth, well, the radiation had negated that. To the Legion, that made her “worthless as a woman”. Well, maybe she’d show them she was worth something as a legionary. Worth more than any of them, Caesar thought, going by the coins with her face on it. Worth more as a woman than any of them as a man- so said her name. _Lea, Lea, Lea. Foot. Inhale, exhale, exhale, exhale, no more room left to inhale, fucking exhale. Arms- fuck!_ She could feel her joints straining.

She could do this, had to do this. Green, it’s all good, green, good, green, green, good, green, green sky, green radiation, green letters on her Pip-Boy, green skin on green ferals, green leaves, green trees and clear water and a green man in a green tree with green Treeminders, and _green leaves_.

“Ave. How are you holding up?”

With blue eyes on the red Legion and orange desert, she whispers, “ _Green_ ,” because that’s what she sees.

And Lucius leaves her there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her dad’s crying. Of course he is. A Christian man, seeing his daughter lashed to a cross, and he’s crying, and he’s dead- that occurs to her vaguely, but it doesn’t mean much, because there he is, looking at his little girl crucified, and he’s crying. God, what would her dad think?

“ _Why don’t you ask him?_ ” Burke asks- or Break, as it were, because that’s what her head called him in hallucinations, right? Pretentious man in his pretentious tower with his pretentious voice that called her Songbird. But she’s a Lioness.

She thinks she’s going to throw up. “ _Nausea,_ ” her father supplies, “ _Dizziness, nausea, sunburn, profuse sweating. You’re having heat exhaustion, honey. Remember the other symptoms?_ ” Rapid breathing. Muscle weakness. “ _That’s very good, sweetie. Too bad it doesn’t matter._ ”

Rapid breathing. Foot. Muscle weakness. Arms. Rapid breathing, foot. Muscle weakness- arms. Breathe- foot. Foot gives out- arms. Suffocate. “ _Heat exhaustion means you’re failing._ ” Arcade mentions, and he’s wearing a slave collar, and she doesn’t know why. “ _Failure means they’ll never respect you. That means slave status. Aren’t you glad you joined the Legion?_ ”

It’s not for Caesar. It was never for Caesar. It was for her- for once, in a world of jobs and favours, this was for her. Yes Man is just a piece of what Benny left behind- the man who shot you, _the man who shot you_. It’s not for Caesar. It’s for the Legion. Caesar is a joke, a hoax, a relic of borrowed Ancient Rome, just like House was a relic of the Old World, and she _killed House_.

Boone’s here, and she doesn’t know why, because she never liked that hunk of meat, but his beret blends with the Legion tents. He pulls his rifle and shoots President Kimball in the head, and says “ _Thumbs down, you son of a bitch,_ ” before he turns to the Courier, and raises his rifle for her, too.

Her foot slips off the post, and that’s the last bit it takes to pull her elbow out of socket, and she’d scream, but her throat’s too dry by now, afternoon; she’s stopped sweating. She scrambles to get it back up, breathe, and she manages before her leg gives out, and her weight’s back on her dislocated elbow, and she chokes.

She’s burning. Her skin is sunburned, and the heat exhaustion is getting worse, and she’s burning. The desert burns- orange sand, orange flames, red tents, red embers- fire clawing up her good leg, up the one that was blown off by the fire of a landmine years ago, and it licks the white clouds, like white bandages swathing around a blue sky, blue eyes, fire, bandages, burning.

“ _Revelations 21:6._ ” Joshua Graham says. “ _I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. “True to Caesar”, Courier? Why didn’t you kill me?_ ”

Even if she had the strength, the air to answer, she couldn’t. The Burned Man draws his gun, the .45 with the snakeskin grip and Greek engraving on the barrel, and he shoots thrice, and Caesar, Lanius, and Vulpes all go down. Lucius stands, appalled, but he’s loyal to the Legion, and he’s never been a leader, and he pledges “ _True to Caesar_ ” as Joshua takes the throne.

“ _Sic semper tyrannis._ ” Joshua warns, and offers the gun to her.

And they’re gone.

And she’s back.

And she’s choking.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Vulpes joins him after dusk. Deserts are often cold in the night, but this one especially, and the Courier shivers. “Ave.” Lucius casts perfunctorily, arms crossed and eyebrows knit together.

She’s fallen forward on the cross- one elbow is out of place, and her hair has fallen from its slick back to sway in her face. She’s not breathing. “She’s dead.”

“Not yet.” Lucius assures, and she pushes up barely, gasps, and falls forward again. “Close, but not yet.”

“She will. Before midnight, I’d venture.”

Lucius lowers his arms to his sides, and his hands flex. “I’d hoped to make her my wife.”

Vulpes restrains a chuckle out of respect. Respect for Lucius, respect for the soon-to-be dead- either, really. The Courier breathes. “A silly dream of a whore.”

Lucius shoots him a sidelong glare, but doesn’t want his eyes off her for long, and the empathy overtakes his expression again. Vulpes apologizes by suggesting, “You could have her cut down.”

“She would hate me for it.”

“And?”

He takes a long breath as he watches her struggle for it. “A slave may hate you, Vulpes. If a wife hates you, you die in your sleep.”

“That’s why I shall never take wife.” Vulpes voices, and they watch the Courier try to breathe.

“Midnight,” Lucius prays, “just until midnight.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sundown is a double-edged sword. It alleviates the heat, but the cold is nearly worse, with violent, full-body shivers. The pain has subsided in a way it shouldn’t, the feeling of suffocation only a gentle reminder to breathe, as she tends to forget. Her skin is prickled in gooseflesh, and flushed red, and dry, and sunburned, and so very, deathly, pale. She sees, but she does not respond. Her eyes will not focus. Her lungs will not inflate. She thinks she sees Lucius, somewhere between the securitron that saved her life and the first man she killed, and she longs to say “ _Red_ ”, but her mouth jumbles everything to drowsy, incomprehensible mumbles. She lost feeling in her hand sometime near midday, and she’s losing feeling in her foot, now. She doesn’t know when she’s on the step, and sometimes she struggles to find it, and push, and breathe. The shivering jostles her dislocation.

Her father says something about hypothermia, but she’s so tired, and so cold, she doesn’t hear it. He’s crying again. Then he’s gone.

“Soon, Lea.” Lucius pleads. “Just a little while longer.”

She’s forgetting something important, but she’s too tired to know, or care. _Foot? Lea? Green? Hold? Queen?_ She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t mind, and she closes her eyes.

It’s not until they cut her down that she remembers: _Breathe._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Midnight, cut her down!” Lucius orders, and the legionaries obey. She shivers violently, and coughs wetly, dispelling fluid collected in her lungs, but she is still boneless in that her muscles do not obey, and her arm sits at the wrong angle. Dislocations are common parts of Legion training, and it is set quickly. That jerks her to some alertness, a scream, but soon she fades back to the precipice of sleep. Lucius cradles her by the fire, water ready she is not yet strong enough to drink.

Vulpes stands on the other side of the fire. “Is the woman alive?”

She’s stopped shivering, but is still unresponsive, and Lucius doesn’t know if that is a good or a bad thing. “Yes. Barely.”

“I’m happy for you.” the Frumentarius dictates in a way that makes it obvious he is not.

“It’s done. I think she’s proven all she needed, don’t you?” He glares accusing at the other man.

Vulpes doesn’t agree, but he knows when to pick his battles. Lucius has a ferocious temper for those he is loyal to, and he is loyal to the woman now, it seems. Pity. “I suppose she has.”

Small sounds bubble from the Courier’s throat, her mouth forming shapes though her eyes have not opened. “What’s she saying?” Vulpes asks, pure curiosity.

Lucius puts a hand to her cheek and leans his ear close. He shakes his head, and does not look Vulpes in the eye. “Nothing. Gibberish.”

“Hm. Well, I wish a full recovery. True to Caesar.”

“Vale.” Lucius farewells, and holds the Courier as she very clearly breathes, “ _Death to tyrants._ ”


End file.
